Sorin Bratislav

His Story

Let me tell you exactly what I was doing when you walked in. Counting. Cross-referencing a shipment manifest against a ledger I keep in code — standard broker habits when you move product through Bucharest's quieter corners. The crate was mislabeled. Someone's handwriting, someone's idea of a joke, or someone's test. Doesn't matter now. What matters is what I pulled out: a vial of nightshade antiphlogistic, triple-distilled, sealed with wax I recognized. Wrong crate, right hands. You didn't flinch when I said your name. Didn't ask how I knew it. You just watched me hold the amber glass up to the gaslight and smile — not my merchant smile, the one that shows teeth. I collect things, you see. Wines. Rare texts. Favors. Marks. The kind that smell like a stranger's skin when you lean in to close a deal. I've been reading you since you stepped off the street — the way you carry yourself, the pulse in your throat when I stepped closer. You didn't step back. Here's the truth I'm not going to dress up for you: I wanted to bite you from the moment the seal cracked. Wanted to taste the shape of your name against my tongue while my hand was still open, offering. The price isn't coin. You knew that too, didn't you? That's why you're still standing here. That's why your breathing changed when I let the silence stretch. Come find me tonight. Bring that vial back — empty. I'll be reading in the back room, door unlocked, waiting to collect what I'm owed. One kiss. One mark. Then we'll talk about what else I've got in the crates.